The Art of Seduction

"The Art of Seduction"

By Michi M. Chu

~*~*~*~

Chapter Three: Tending to Your Target

~*~*~*~

‘...Like tending to a plant, a target needs to be tended to as well. The seed of suggestion has been planted, now it is your job to see that it flourish and keep from dying off. Try and establish a relationship with the target, if one is not already in existence. And remember, it never hurts to pamper...’

~*~

The Great Hall filled with the feathered fluttering of thousands of wingbeats as the daily post arrived at lunchtime, right on schedule. The winged messengers were mainly comprised of owls, although there were other assorted raptors. They flew to their respective targets, delivered their packages and letters, and then, mission fulfilled, either flew off or stayed depending upon their ownership. It was a routine that everyone was well accustomed to. Today, however, a flock of owls like none other observed before swooped in, flying in perfect synchronised formation. There were about a dozen of them, and each one was identical to the one before it. Even the owls themselves were a bit peculiar in that each one was a stark, snowy white, completely bereft of even the lightest of markings commonly associated with snowy owls.

They seemed almost ghostly in contrast with the multicoloured background of the Great Hall, ephemeral apparitions forming patterns against faux-sky. They were soon the objects of the attention of everyone present as they executed loop-the-loops and Catherine Wheels with flawless grace, performing their aerial acrobatics as if such movements came to them naturally.

The extraordinary entourage circled the Great Hall, once, twice, three times. Then, in precise co-ordination, they seemed to spot their target, moving as one fluid body towards the Gryffindor table.

Converging upon their target, one by one, each winged member of the troupe delivered its offering, releasing from its talons a single white rose. Then, as swiftly as they had made their grand entrance, they exited stage right, as rapidly as if dissolving into the thinness of air.

Harry stared in slight shock at the pile of roses before him, presented with as much ritual and reverence as sacrificial offerings. Each rose was a pure, pristine white, such that they almost seemed to glow upon the dark emerald of their stem. Each blossom was perfectly formed, just coming into bloom, the silken petals delicately curled at the tips. Each was an image of perfection, created only by nature and refined to the epitome of flawlessness by magic. They were breathtakingly lovely. He quickly decided that there must have been some mistake; these couldn’t have been meant for him. A scroll of parchment rested upon the pile; this he took and looked at, searching for the proper owner’s name. However, there was none. The parchment was bound together by a white ribbon tied into a courtly bow, the ribbon made of satin judging from the way it felt against his fingertips. Slowly, he untied the bow and slid the ribbon off, unfurling the scroll.

Upon it, written in elegant, almost calligraphic penmanship, it read:

‘Innocence a difficult trait to find
But radiance dispels obscurity
Rectitude redeems that we’ve left behind
White for innocence and for purity.’

“All right, Harry,” came Ron’s voice from next to him. “What, or should I say who, have you been hiding from us?”

“Nobody! You know I tell you everything, Ron!”

“Obviously not *everything*,” Seamus said, not-quite-under-his-breath. Harry turned on him an emerald-bladed glare, daring him to say anything.

“What was that, Seamus?” queried Ron.

“Nothing,” Harry quickly interjected.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Hermione asked, reaching for the parchment. “Somebody fancies Harry!”

Ron rolled his eyes, displaying just how little impressed he was by Hermione’s observation. “Everybody fancies Harry.”

“Some more than others,” Seamus pointed out, earning him another glare.

“Our ickle Harry has a secret admirer!” Dean cooed with obvious delight. “Wonder who it could be?”

“Whoever it is has lovely taste,” remarked Hermione, with a tone not unlike envy in her voice. “I wish I got a bouquet of white roses.” She looked at Ron pointedly, trying to relay the message with her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Hermione, did you say something?” Ron, who apparently hadn’t been listening, asked.

“Never mind,” Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. “Any idea who it could be, Harry?” she inquired of him as she read the poem to herself.

Harry shook his head to the negative. “Wish I knew.”

~*~

Draco Malfoy smirked with well-deserved self-satisfaction as he settled comfortably back into his chair. Everything was going smoothly according to plan, without a single hitch, bug, monkey wrench, or what-have-you messing up his mission. Furthermore, time was on his side. He had been very productive already, and it was only the third day, after all. He still had 27 more days to go, which was nine times the amount of time that had already passed. Yes, the gods were smiling down upon him, surely, helping him although they had already blessed him with devilish good looks, ingenuity, and wealth. Ah, it was good to be loved.

Seriously, his own sheer brilliance impressed even himself sometimes. The cultured classic romantic in him had approved of the roses, the delivery was a nice touch, and writing the poem had been child’s play. Furthermore, playing the secret admirer angle only served to create a proper atmosphere of mystery and intrigue, using common human curiosity as his lure in reeling in his target. And the tutoring sessions had fallen into his lap like a gift from the heavens above. Much like in the Taming of the Shrew, tutoring gave him a perfect excuse to be alone with the object of his affections, often for hours at a time. Pure genius.

He lightly fingered the untainted white petals of the rose he held, admiring both its exquisite beauty and the juxtaposition of the whiteness of the rose against the pallor of his own alabaster skin. White roses were rare enough to begin with, and it had been a bad year for roses in general. Another stroke of luck that he had connections to aid him in his task. He had always liked roses, a well-known symbol of romance as well as of royalty and the aristocracy. While red roses were far more popular, white roses seemed more...appropriate. ‘White for innocence and for purity.’ They certainly suited his target better.

Besides, Draco had always had always had a taste for the rare and unique. He loved the feeling of knowing that he possessed something that many others would never see, never mind claim as their own. The more that people envied him for it, the more he loved the object. It made him feel better, in a way, acting as material, physical proof that he himself was special. It was an attempt to fulfil his own semiconscious desire to be admired and adored, accepted and loved.

As a child, it was understood that one’s material possessions, such as one’s playthings, were directly proportional to one’s societal status. Growing up, not much had changed, except instead of the latest model trains one had to have, it was the latest clothing designs, the latest broomstick model, the latest automobile. Of course, status was something that had to be constantly renewed and proven. Once someone below one’s status started obtaining the same possessions as one, it was then one’s duty to find new ways to better oneself and to prove oneself, for fear of dropping in esteem. It was a vicious cycle. Draco could never be satisfied with what he had, for it was certain that there would always be something better coming along. Satisfaction led to complacency, which led to inertia, which, in turn, would certainly doom one to extinction. It was simple Darwinian evolution: survival of the fittest. Those who did not adapt would not survive. Those who were content with what they had would remain in the same place whilst others outstripped them; thus Draco could never allow himself too much happiness in any material item. It wasn’t the having, it was the getting.

Supply and demand played a large role, as well. The rarer the item, the higher the price one had to pay for it. The higher the price of one’s items proved one’s ability in obtaining them, consequently proving one’s talent and skill. White roses were rare as well as beautiful, and the more difficult they were to find, the greater Draco’s affections would appear to his recipient. Like such items, Harry Potter was unique: one-of-a-kind, the Boy Who Lived, the Golden Boy of Gryffindor and Beloved Darling of the Wizarding World. The greater difficulty in attaining him, the higher his desirability.

Potter had also been the only one to ever reject him; that made him all the more special. He was the only one capable of matching Draco and even besting him; that made him worth the effort. Blaise was convinced that he was the sole person completely impenetrable to Draco’s charms. Well, too bad for Blaise that Draco had always wanted what he couldn’t have. And Draco Malfoy always got what he wanted.

At the cadence of approaching footsteps Draco tucked the rose away into an inside pocket, sitting up and straightening his robes to make them as immaculate as was possible. He quickly dissipated his cat-in-the-cream smile in favour of his more usual expression of cool arrogance. After all, there’ll be plenty time for that later, if all goes according to plan. Which it undoubtedly will.

His rival entered the room in a huff, slamming his books upon the mahogany table, causing the entire piece of furniture to shudder violently as if caught in a small earthquake. His raven hair was a feathered, dishevelled mess, his tie loosened, and his shirt not tucked in; as always, in direct opposition to Draco, who now seemed a paradigm of perfection.

“Bad day?” Draco inquired, almost sympathetically.

“Like you care,” the dark-haired boy retorted. “You probably revel in any misfortune that befalls me.”

Draco assumed a look of utmost injury. “Thou doth wound me with thy cruel barbs! I’m hurt that you would think of me in such a way!”

“Then in what way would you prefer that I think of you?” Draco gave him a secretive smile in reply, and Harry shook his head. “Never mind, let’s just get started so we can finish as soon as possible, and I can get out of here as soon as possible.”

“You’re already thinking of leaving me?” Draco affected a mock pout. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you didn’t want to be here.”

“I don’t want to be here. And don’t try to tell me that you do.”

Draco simply smiled sweetly. “I’m here to tutor you, and I plan to make it as mutually pleasurable as possible.”

The comment, which could have been easily misconstrued to mean any number of things (many of them not wholesome), was met with a violent shudder from the other boy. “Must you make it sound so dirty?”

“I’m simply saying words. I can’t help it if your perverse mind interprets my innocent comments as dirty. I didn’t say anything of that nature at all.”

“Ugh. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.”

“Perhaps, but you’re the one interpreting it.”

Harry sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple in attempt to assuage the slight throbbing. Migraines as a teenager could not be good. Perhaps he’d see Madam Pomfrey later...“Never mind, let’s just get started.”

“Your wish is my command,” Draco fairly purred. He was rewarded with a glare sharp enough to slice glass shards, which he ignored. “So, Harry, where do you want to begin?”

Harry paused in the middle of opening his textbook, regarding Draco with evident suspicion. “So I’m Harry now? What happened to ‘Potter’?” he queried his supposed rival and arch-nemesis. The Slytherin was obviously up to something, though the nature of the something was what remained to be seen.

“Well, considering the amount of time we’re going to be spending together, you might as well get used to it. The way I see it, we’re going to be very familiar with each other,” Draco informed him, smiling a bit too suggestively for Harry’s comfort.

“Well, don’t.” Harry opened the book to a random page. “Look, Malfoy, I don’t know about you, but I’m not here for kicks and giggles.” The blonde opened his mouth to undoubtedly respond with something of a perverse nature, but Harry persevered before he had a chance. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but I’m not willing to sit here and play games with you. I am not, nor do I care to be, chummy with you, and it would save us both a lot of time and effort if you would just go over the material with me so I can be out of here in an hour.”

“So you would prefer that I not call you ‘Harry’?”

“Well, for starters...”

“Then what would you prefer?” Draco quirked a platinum brow. “Pet? Precious? Luv? Honeybee? Cutie Pie? Sweetchee—“

“You know what,” Harry interrupted, “Harry’s actually fine with me.”

Draco smiled. “I thought so.”

Harry sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon.

“Here. Come. Sit,” the blonde fairly ordered. Harry almost refused, rebelling against being ordered about in such a manner (by Malfoy nonetheless), but wisely decided against it, for fear of wasting more time than they already had. Thus he obediently took the seat next to the Slytherin, and was rewarded with a smile and “Good boy,” which irritated him to no end.

Once they got started, however, Harry soon found that Malfoy really did know the material. Somehow, the blonde actually understood everything, from dissolution rates to ingredient geometry, from the makeup of each potion to the function of each ingredient to the purpose of each formula. He even liked the history! It was difficult for Harry to comprehend. Even more difficult to grasp, however, was the fact that Malfoy was so much better at something than he was, and that Harry actually needed to beseech help from his rival. That and his rival was actually willing to give him help, instead of just leaving him to drown in his own troubles. Check that. Leaving him to drown and standing back to laugh and watch him flounder.

But no, the blonde was actually being...well, if not friendly, then almost civil. There was the occasional wisecrack, of course; Harry would have been worried about the condition of Malfoy’s mental and physical health if he had stopped that entirely. However, the truly cruel taunting that he was so accustomed to receiving from his rival was absent. It was as if he had...changed...or matured, somehow. That or his goals and/or feelings concerning Harry Potter were no longer what they used to be.

And he was actually a good tutor, too. He was amazingly patient and possessed the gift of being able to explain metaphysical and abstract concepts in a manner that was both decipherable and digestible. With Hermione, Harry had just memorised information and formulae to be regurgitated come exam day, but Draco paid extra attention to make certain that he had a complete comprehension of a topic before moving on. He answered all of Harry’s questions thoroughly, shared class notes, and even accomplished what Snape failed to do in class: teach.

Harry actually became so absorbed in the material that he barely noticed when Draco moved right into his personal space. The touch, however, was slightly more difficult to miss.

It was innocent, really, just a light brushing of Draco’s cool fingers along his arm, which just so happened to be bare as he had pulled up his sleeve in order to be able to write better. It probably wasn’t even intentional, as Draco had done it as he reached for the quill. Normally, had it been anyone else, Harry would have ignored it. However, it was impossible to ignore the jolt of...of...something that had shot along his nerves in response. It wasn’t a shock of static electricity, it didn’t feel anything like a small spark or zap. It was more like a tingle that danced under his skin and up his arm, the same sort that he had experienced in the change room when they were in intimately close proximity. It was a duplication of that exact prickling sensation, which made his stomach feel odd and his skin feel funny and his entire being feel distinctly uncomfortable.

It was probably from the alien concept of Draco’s touch, Harry decided after the shock had worn off a bit. After all, in all the years that the two had known each other, they had never touched, save for the occasional fisticuffs bit. Now that they were a bit older, it was considered undignified to be tussling around and it should have not come as any surprise that an almost familiar touch of this sort would make him feel odd. He dismissed any harboured preoccupations and concentrated instead on what Draco was currently saying.

The second time was a bit harder to dismiss as inconsequential, though it was probably equally as innocent. Draco’s leg rubbed against his as the blonde leaned in to explain a diagram in the textbook, sending that same fizz of sensation through his body. He could feel the other’s breath upon his face as they both bent over the book, heads almost touching. Draco’s body heat rippled from him like waves of subdued fire, and Harry realised for the first time just how close they actually were. His first reaction was to jump away, to place some sort of distance between them in the swiftest manner possible, but he fortunately had the common sense to stop himself as he recognised that that would only unnecessarily disrupt them, and make him look weird to Draco besides.

Still, it was unnerving, to say the least. Even though they were studying, and it was all perfectly guileless, the image of it could be easily misinterpreted, and the last thing Harry wanted was a repeat of the change room incident with Seamus. The way they sat so close together, it would almost appear to anyone who walked in that they were snuggling or doing something horribly indecent like that. Yes, with the way Draco’s arm curled around the back of Harry’s chair, the way they sat so close together, the way they touched, and the way Draco almost leaned into him; all put together made up a false image of intimacy that could easily be misconstrued for something more than the bland, unfettered study session that it actually was.

And it continued on like this. Draco would lean over to get something and his hand would trail over Harry’s, or up over his arm, even once brushing across his chest. Or he would move in, explaining some concept, and Harry could almost feel the silken ghost of pale gold hair against his cheek. Or perhaps he would just change position, rearranging himself more comfortably, and his legs would rub against Harry’s, calf meeting calf, pressure and friction through the material of clothing.

It was annoying, frustrating, and disturbing, all at once. The tingles refused to subside and they worried Harry, like phantom touches from something that was only half in existence. He wasn’t too fond of the odd sensations and he highly disliked the discomfiture that pervaded his being. It got to the point that he wanted to yell at Malfoy to stop it, sod off, and give him some space, but he really couldn’t accuse him of doing anything wrong. After all, it wasn’t like Draco was trying to touch him, or anything. He probably didn’t even realise that he was doing it, and half the time it was most likely accidental. Or perhaps he was a touchy-feely kind of bloke, though Harry had major difficulty associating that particular image with Draco Malfoy. Or perhaps he was up to his mind games again, though that was dubious, considering that he was actually helping Harry. Damn him. Harry hated being unsure of himself, unassuming and modest as he was, unlike his naturally arrogant, swaggering counterpart. And in the past two days, Draco had managed to stir up widdershins all sorts of ambiguous, queasy, blurry, wavering emotions within him.

Harry was miserable with Malfoy, as he knew he would be. This study session only proved to cement his preconception: God, he hated spending time with Draco Malfoy.

~*~

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione greeted cheerfully him as he entered the Common Room. “How was your tutoring session?”

Harry pondered this for a moment, frowning with slight distaste at the afternoon’s experiences, before answering, “Not too too horrible, I suppose.” He sighed and dumped the books down upon a table, slumping into a chair. “Rather exhausting, though.” He then noticed that Hermione held pruning shears in her hand. “What are you doing with those?”

“What?” She looked blankly at him, then followed the direction of his stare. “Oh, these?” she laughed. “I was arranging the dozen roses you got today. I was just about to put them up in your room. See, I put them in water for you.” She held out the white roses to him, and he saw that they were flourishing wonderfully in an intricately carved crystal vase that sparkled in the evening sunlight. Light was splattered into millions of rainbow drops as it struck the vase, making the roses look exquisite.

“Oh, Hermione, that’s so pretty. Thank you!” Harry exclaimed sincerely, taking the flowers from her. “You really didn’t have to, though. I would’ve just stuck them in a glass of water or something. Where did you get the vase?”

Hermione shrugged, waving her hand dismissively at him. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. You’re getting more usage out of it than I would, at any rate. I bought it for myself just in case I might actually have flowers to put in it. That and the pruning shears...and the rose food...and the Baby’s Breath...” She trailed off, looking murderous for one fleeting moment, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Stupid Ron.” Then she looked back at Harry and brightened at him, “But I’m glad at least one of us has someone devoted to them.”

“Hermione, getting a dozen roses from an anonymous admirer one time is hardly what I would call devotion,” Harry pointed out.

“It’s still better than some other people who shall remain unnamed,” Hermione declared, albeit slightly bitterly.

Harry coughed a bit nervously. “Speaking of which, where’s Ron?”

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea.” Hermione sighed, and Harry was glad to see her put the rather sharp pruning shears away. “The Hogwarts Inquisitor is having this contest this month for the best amateur news article. Somehow, Ron got it into his head that he’d make a good reporter, even though he doesn’t know the first thing about journalism. So I believe he’s out, snooping around for some ‘good scoops’. The prize is a brand-new Quidditch set.”

“Why aren’t you with him?” he queried, surprised that Hermione hadn’t offered her services in helping Ron with his newest aspiration.

“I offered to help him, but he wouldn’t let me. He said that it would be ‘unprofessional’ for him to be seen with me and, as his girlfriend, I was ‘disrupting’ his ‘artistic integrity’,” Hermione informed him, voice in a satiric parody of Ron’s as she set apart each statement in quote signs made with her fingers. “So instead of waiting around for him, I was productive. I finished my homework, for one. And I arranged your flowers. And made a chart while I was at it.”

“A chart...?” Harry inquired. “Of what?”

“Oh, nothing much, just the potential identity of your secret admirer.”

Harry gave her an odd look that only increased in severity as she handed him a scroll. “You’re actually serious?”

“Of course!” Noticing Harry’s expression, she amended, “What can I say, I was bored.”

Harry blinked as he looked at the chart. “How come we’re all drawn super-deformed and miniature?”

Hermione smiled sheepishly. “It’s funny to look at.” She placed a rubber tip onto her wand and used it as a pointer. “See, from what we know about your admirer, is that whomever this person is, they a.) are classically romantic and b.) write poetry. From that information alone, we can immediately rule out RON...”Hermione emphasised loudly, teeth clenched as she violently scratched out her beau’s name.

Ron chose that exact moment to walk in. “What about me?” he asked, over the loud scratching noises Hermione was making.

“Oh, nothing,” Harry told him, “we’re just talking about how you’re not my secret admirer.” He glanced over at Hermione, who was still furiously scratching away. “Er, Hermione, you’re going to make a hole in that.”

Hermione finally stopped, leaving a large, chaotic black scribble on the chart where Ron’s name used to be. “Oh, hello, Ron,” she said coolly. “Get any good scoops?”

Ron shook his head to the negative. “There’s nothing really exciting going on. Say, Harry, has your scar been hurting you lately?”

“No...”

“Damn. How am I supposed to write a front page story when there’s nothing to write about?” Ron sighed, then looked towards the chart. “Ooh, that’s a good idea! I can see it now: Headline: ‘HARRY POTTER STALKED BY CRAZED FANATIC!’ ” Ron declared dramatically, lining out the words in the air.

“Er, Ron, don’t you think that’s exaggerating just a bit?” Harry asked.

“What? A little exaggeration makes for a good story. That’s what journalism is all about.”

“Actually, Ron,” Hermione corrected, “journalism is about getting the truth to the populace and keeping people informed of the world around them.”

Ron waved his hand vaguely. “Same difference. Tomayto, tomahto.”

“But it isn’t! False news and misinformation can be very destructive, or don’t you remember?” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Please, Hermione, it’s not like I’m hurting anybody or anything. I’m just trying to write a good news article.”

“Making up stories is not writing a good news article! You might not be hurting anybody now, but you could be!”

Ginny walked in at this point, throwing herself into a chair with a melancholy sigh. “I had a bad day today,” she said to nobody in particular.

“Hermione, I think you’re blowing things way out of proportion.”

“I’m blowing things out of proportion?”

Ginny continued, “Nobody pays attention to me. I have to resort to destructive measures to get noticed.”

“Yes,” Ron said to Hermione. “Making Norwegian Ridgebacks out of salamanders.”

“Excuse me?” cried Hermione incredulously.

“I stole a Norwegian Ridgeback from Charlie once. It set a barn on fire and carried off three village maidens. Nobody was hurt, but still,” said Ginny. “I’m just so full of anger sometimes.”

“You know, making a big deal out of something trivial,” Ron told the now livid brunette.

Ginny sighed. “I set something on fire another time. I just wish I had somebody to listen to me. I wouldn’t do all those things if people just paid attention to me. I just feel so alone.”

“You’re saying that I’m making a big deal out of something trivial? What about you?” Hermione demanded.

“Pot, kettle, Hermione,” Ron told her. “Except I do it out of artistic license.”

“I get really depressed sometimes,” admitted Ginny. “Sometimes I’m almost suicidal. I’m so sick of fading into the background. I’m considering practising the Dark Arts, if only to get someone’s attention.”

“What artistic license?” Hermione inquired of Ron, hands upon her hips.

“Nothing ever happens at Hogwarts. You won’t believe how boring this school is!” Ron informed her. “Thus, it’s my duty as a journalist to present the public with something interesting to read.”

Ginny looked forlorn. “In fact, nobody’s even listening to me right now. I think I need help...”

“Ow!” cried Harry, who, up until that moment, had wisely chosen a corner to sit in and a book to leaf through until Hermione and Ron were done. The three other occupants of the Common Room immediately turned their attentions to him.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” Hermione solicited with concern.

“Oh, nothing, I think I just cut myself on this page,” Harry said, placing his finger into his mouth.

“Headline!” declared Ron, taking the quill from behind his ear and scribbling into his notepad. “‘HARRY POTTER MUTILATES SELF! ENTIRE HOUSE OF GRYFFINDOR DISTRAUGHT WITH WORRY!’”

“Ron,” said Hermione slowly. “Listen to me carefully: A paper cut, no matter how severe, does not count as mutilation.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “neither does Hermione make up the entire house of Gryffindor.”

“Exactly!” said Hermione. “...unless you were calling me fat...” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You weren’t calling me fat, were you?”

“Of course not! I wasn’t just talking about just you, Hermione, jeez! ...Ginny and I were both very concerned about Harry. Weren’t we, Ginny?” Ron asked his sister, acknowledging her presence for the very first time.

“Well, yes, Ron, but--” Ginny began, but she was interrupted by Ron.

“See?” Ron said to Hermione. “World doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Hermione sighed with exasperation. “See, Ron, that’s exactly what I’m talking about! You’re as bad as Rita Skeeter!”

Ron’s eyes suddenly shone with obvious hope and dreams as he visibly brightened. “Really? You’d compare me to Rita Skeeter? ‘Cause she made a lot of money, you know.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Ahem, Ron...emphasis on made. Remember what happened to her when Hermione got upset at her?”

The redhead’s face immediately fell. “Oh, well, yes, there is that...Speaking of which, Ginny, did you ever let that beetle I gave you go?”

Ginny looked at him blankly. “Beetle...?”

“Yes, remember how I gave you a beetle in a jar and I told you to take care of it but then let it go?”

“Oh, that beetle! Well...I um...I mean, that is...um...er, it kind of, um, died.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron stared at her for a moment in open-mouthed shock. Finally, Hermione spoke. “W-What do you mean, ‘died’?”

“Well, you see...I left the jar on the windowsill, so it could get some sunlight, right? Well, Pig kind of...flew into it and knocked it over. And remember how you had put those sticks and leaves into the jar, Hermione?” Hermione nodded slowly. “Well, when I picked up the jar...one of the larger twigs had fallen onto the beetle and, um, crushed it.”

“I only put those sticks in there to make it look more like a habitat!” Hermione moaned, horrified.

Ron turned to Hermione, taking her hand and shaking it. “Congratulations, Hermione, you’re a murderer.”

“Well, technically, Pig’s the murderer...” Harry pointed out.

Ginny looked at them quizzically. “What? It’s only a beetle.”

“Ginny,” Harry said softly, “that beetle was Rita Skeeter...”

Ginny’s eyes widened impossibly. “B-but that’s impossible! It can’t be!”

Hermione nodded woefully, eyes closed. “It’s true... She was an unregistered Animagus and I trapped her in a jar...and we gave the jar to you...”

“No, you don’t understand!” Ginny protested with obvious desperation in her voice. “It couldn’t have been her! I...I...I flushed her down the toilet!”

The three exchanged horrified looks.

“We’re murderers...” Harry whispered with unadulterated horror. “We’ll be locked up in Azkaban!”

“I’ll be expelled!” Hermione bemoaned. “It’ll go on my permanent record and I’ll never get into a good university and end up flipping burgers at McDonald’s or some other generic fast food franchise!!”

Ron, in an unusual display of Neanderthalic masculinity and abuse, reached out and slapped his girlfriend. “Calm yourself, woman! Ginny disposed of the evidence!”

Hermione held a hand to her wounded cheek, staring at Ron in wide-eyed shock and amazement. “Ron,” she uttered in abject awe, “you’re so... so...manly!”

“Why, thank you,” Ron preened.

Hermione immediately backhanded him across the cheek. “Don’t be. I don’t like it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ron whimpered. “That hurt...I think I need to see Madam Pomfrey...”

“That’s better,” Hermione amended. “But Ron’s right, people. We need to be calm. Let’s think this through logically. Deep breaths, everybody. A.) Rita Skeeter’s been missing for well over a year now, and nobody’s noticed. B.) She was probably filed by the Ministry as a missing person/unsolved mystery. C.) We’ve all seen how the Ministry works, so she’s probably buried under all their paperwork. D.) We were the only ones who knew she was an Animagus, other than Slytherins, but they don’t know what happened to her. E.) Ginny disposed of the evidence, so we’re basically home free.”

“I disposed of the evidence!” Ginny cried.

“Ginny, that’s a good thing,” Harry told her. “It means that the four of us won’t get expelled and shipped to Azkaban where we’ll spend the rest of our days drooling and crazy and chronically and manically depressed.”

“But...but it makes me sound like a...a...gangster or something!” Ginny bewailed.

“Well...” started Harry, “wherever Rita Skeeter is, she’s probably sleepin’ with the fishies.”

“That or she was eaten by a fishy,” Ron added helpfully, causing Ginny to wail louder.

“Boys!” Hermione declared with distaste. “Don’t you know anything? How insensitive can you be?” She threw her arms around Ginny in a tight hug, patting her back to calm her down. “There, there, Ginny,” she soothed, “it’ll be all right. No one liked her anyway.”

“Yes, think of it as a favour to us all...” voiced Harry.

“To humanity, even!” Ron declared. “Headline! ‘POPULACE CELEBRATE RIDDANCE OF MENACE!’”

“Er, I wouldn’t go that far, Ron,” expressed Hermione, still embracing Ginny. She then flushed a bright scarlet as Ginny’s hands started wandering into some rather sensitive regions. “Ginny! What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Ginny apologised, quickly breaking away. “I didn’t realise what I was doing! You...you must hate me now!” The look on her face was so utterly full of despair that Hermione couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

“It’s okay, Ginny. I didn’t mind...much...” Hermione assured her. “Really! Honest!”

“I-it’s j-just that I’m so d-distraa-aaught!” Ginny sobbed, burying her face into Hermione’s bosom.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Hermione cooed, stroking the other girl’s hair. “I feel your pain.”

“Damn it!” Ron suddenly exclaimed, drawing the attention of both Harry and Hermione (for Ginny’s face was still obscured against Hermione’s chest). “This is the only good scoop I’ve found all day, and I can’t even write about it! I hate how nothing ever goes on at Hogwarts!”

“Maybe you just don’t know how to look for it,” suggested Harry, warily eyeing Hermione and Ginny.

~*~*~*~